


A Dire Kind of Love

by the_nerd_word



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, angsty because I'm me lol sorry, inspired by Raendown's soulmate story collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 00:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/pseuds/the_nerd_word
Summary: They spend the hours in comfort and in warmth, making sacrificial offerings in the form of lips on battle-born skin. And always, always, Tobirama remembers the first time they met.





	A Dire Kind of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raendown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raendown/gifts).



> Soulmate prompt: "When you meet your soulmate for the first time, you get a glimpse of their future" with Tobirama and Madara.

“Stay,” Tobirama whispers, and the kiss that follows tastes like sorrow and desperation. 

Madara presses forward until his forehead rests against Tobirama’s. He exhales slowly, eyes closed, refusing to let this become a memory he can’t unsee. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

There’s a pause, then Tobirama scowls. The look is halfhearted at best. “Not talking about it doesn’t make it any less real,” he insists. Then, “Would you please look at me?”

Madara finally does, but not without stepping back. The depth to his eyes is startling in the way it shines in the sharp evening light, reflecting, withholding. They aren’t kind eyes, never have been, but Tobirama has grown to love them all the same. “The village will never accept the Uchiha,” Madara answers, tone surprisingly quiet for how bitter it is. “We will fade into obscurity. You—Even you don’t...”

“I don’t what?” Tobirama asks, trepidation this cool, seeping thing in the pit of his stomach. 

Finally, Madara glares; the sense of betrayal is what fuels his temper. “You don’t want me to become Hokage!” he snaps, hurt and unbalanced and eager to turn these things into the familiar workings of rage. “I heard you. With Hashirama. I can’t believe that you of all— You want your brother to take the seat. Then you’ll be in line for succession, and the Uchiha will remain a second-class clan.”

Tobirama is shaking his head before he can even finish. “No,” he states firmly but calmly. He can’t help but reach out and run his fingers through the ends of Madara’s hair, marveling, as he has so many times before, that Madara allows this. The strands are stark against his pale hand. “I only want a democracy—”

“That’s just an excuse! A lie for diplomatic favor!”

“No. Madara, please, listen to me—”

“Complacency has made us weak!” Madara insists. “Peace has made the Uchiha settle.” He turns away abruptly, looking pained. The space between them is cold in return. “I won’t just, just tolerate this. I _won’t._ ”

Tobirama wants to step close once more, wants to touch and protect and subdue. “Stay,” he says again, letting weariness warp the word into the grief-quiet plea it is. He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so afraid. “At least for the night. Don’t simply—rush out like this.”

The sun continues its descent outside, and the room is shortly dipped in shades of reds and golds. Madara takes a moment to watch the way Tobirama’s silhouette is bathed in color. His resolve wavers with each passing second. “The night,” he agrees after a while, tone carefully neutral. “But I cannot promise anything more.”

Tobirama nods, throat strangely tight, then holds out his hands to Madara. 

They spend the hours in comfort and in warmth, making sacrificial offerings in the form of lips on battle-born skin. And always, always, Tobirama remembers the first time they met. Remembers glimpses of blood-soaked ground, broken bodies, and a tree that swallowed men whole. White, writhing clones, the soulless gazes of animated corpses, a terrifying goddess whose powers wrought calamity. Maimed children and roiling skies, great beasts swathed in blood and jutsus of every violent kind, gnashing teeth and peeling skin and weeping burns, despair agony _torment-hate-emptiness_ —

And at the center of it all, red armor dull with fire-cooked blood, stood Madara. A champion to the conflict he used to dream against. 

So Tobirama kisses with a dire kind of love, reckless with his affection, sweet yet demanding as they touch and gasp and moan. He abandons himself to Madara’s every desire, drawing out pleasure like a symphony. He is everything he can be for them. Because if Tobirama can offer this future champion a sense of importance, a _love_ of his own, then maybe… 

Maybe his soulmate’s future can change.


End file.
